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mmm  FAVORITE 


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HYMN. 


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Spirit  of  Mortal 
be  Proud 


The  Biblio   Company 

New     Jersey 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign 


http://www.archive.org/details/lincolnsfavoriteOOknox 


Lincoln's  Favorite  Hymn 


Oh,  Why  Should  the  Spirit  of 
Mortal  be  Proud. 


1924 

The  Biblio  Co. 

Pompton    Lakes 

New  Jersey 


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LINCOLN'S  FAVORITE  HYMN. 

The  poem  Mortality,  by  William  Knox,  was 
a  special  favorite  with  Abraham  Lincoln,  up 
to  the  period  of  his  death.  Indeed  the  poem, 
or  hymn,  was  often  ascribed  to  the  pen  of 
Lincoln. 

A  mournful,  melancholy  poem  with  its 
familiar  line  "0  Why  Should  the  Spirit  of 
Mortal  be  Proud,"  remained  throughout 
President  Lincoln's  life  the  favorite  expres- 
sion of  his  own  melancholy  nature. 

Lincoln  never  went  far  afield  in  the  walks 
of  literature.  He  knew  his  Bible  well,  and 
was  fond  of  Burns,  Milton  and  Shakespeare. 
These  with  the  poems  of  William  Knox  were 
his  literature. 


WILLIAM  KNOX. 

William  Knox,  a  Scottish  poet,  was  born  at 
Firth,  Roxburghshire,  17  August,  1789,  and 
died  at  Edinburgh,  12  November  1825.  He 
was  educated  at  Lilliesleaf  and  Musselburgh. 
In  1820,  his  family  settled  in  Edinburgh,  and 
there  Knox,  as  a  young  man,  became  a  jour- 
nalist. Two  years  before  he  had  published 
his  Lonely  Hearth  and  Other  Poems.  In 
1824,  appeared  The  Songs  of  Israel,  followed 
in  the  year  of  his  untimely  death  by  The 
Harp  of  Zion.  A  complete  edition  of  his 
poems  was  published  in  1847,  and  has  long 
since  been  out  of  print. 


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The  verses  of  Knox  are  pervaded  with 
pathetic  and  religious  sentiment.  Scott  con- 
sidered Knox  superior  to  Michael  Bruce, 
especially  in  The  Lonely  Hearth.  The  hymn 
Mortality,  or  more  commonly  known  as  0, 
Why  should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  Proud,  is 
found  in  The  Songs  of  Israel. 


MORTALITY. 

0  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 
Like   a   swift-fleeting   meteor,   a  fast-flying 

cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave, 
He  passes  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 


The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall 

fade, 
Be  scattered  around,  and  tog-ether  be  laid ; 
And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and 

the  high, 
Shall  moulder  to  dust,  and  together  shall  lie. 


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The  infant  a  mother  attended  and  loved, 
The    mother    that    infant's    affection    who 

proved, 
The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  who 

blest, 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwelling  of  rest. 


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The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre  hath 

borne, 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre  hath 

worn, 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  the 

brave, 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the 

grave. 


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The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in 

whose  eye, 
Shone  beauty   and   pleasure — her  triumphs 

are  by; 
And  the  memory  of  those  that  beloved  her 

and  praised 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  saint  who  enjoyed  the  communion  of 

heaven, 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven. 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 


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So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flower  and  the 

weed 
That  wither  away  to  let  others  succeed ; 
So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we  behold, 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  hath  often  been 

told. 

For  we  are  the  same  that  our  fathers  have 

been; 
We  see  the  same  sights  our  fathers  have 

seen; 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  we  feel  the 

same  sun, 
And  run  the  same  course  that  our  fathers 

have  run. 


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The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fathers 

would  think; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  our  fathers 

would  shrink; 
To  the  life  we  are  clinging  they  also  would 

cling; 
But  it  speeds  from  the  earth  like  a  bird  on 

the  wing. 

Yea!    hope  and  despondency,   pleasure   and 

pain, 
Are    mingled    together    like    sunshine    and 

rain; 
And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  the  song  and  the 

dirge 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon  surge. 


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Tis  the  twink  of  an  eye,  'tis  the  draught  of 

a  breath, 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness 

of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the 

shroud : — 
0  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 


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